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He lowered his head, her thick, dark brown curls tickling his chin and mouth. His eyes closed, but a second later he opened them, staring at the Christmas tree in the window of Dyson Realtors. Hehadto focus on that six-foot tree decorated with ornaments shaped like houses and keys. Otherwise, he might concentrate too closely on the feel of Brooklyn’s petite frame pressed to his taller one. Give too much attention to her abundant, sexy-as-fuck curves and how her soft lushness cushioned his bigger, harder body.
Jesus.
He wasn’t a saint.Don’t even fucking think about it, he snarled to his unruly dick. He struggled to control his body’s response. Fought not to let it betray the lust swarming through his blood like a thousand enraged bees let loose from their hive. But the longer those small, firm breasts, softly rounded stomach and thick, gorgeous thighs pressed against him, the more difficult it became to hide just how beautiful and hot he found her.
A Christmas miracle. Where was a damn Christmas miracle when he needed one?
“Sweetheart,” he said again, voice rough with need. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Patrick,” came her muffled answer.
“For what?”
She tipped her head back away from his chest. “For being a thoughtless asshole back there.” Her eyes appeared rounder, softer, behind her glasses as she studied his face. “This time of year must be hard for you,” she whispered. “And I didn’t mean to hurt you with my careless words.”
Realization that she was referring to her comment about family dawned on him, and he vacillated between removing her arms and stepping back, as if emotional distance would emulate physical distance, and drawing her impossibly closer, stamping her skin, her scent, her fuckingbeing, on him.
Instead, he landed somewhere in the middle.
He didn’t release her; he wasn’t that honorable. But he did shift backward just a little, placing air between their bodies. It did nothing to calm the hungry roar inside him demanding he claim that carnal mouth, mark that elegant neck. Grind his aching cock against her belly.
Inhaling a deep breath, he stroked a hand up her spine under the guise of comforting her when he was taking shameless advantage of just being able to touch her without revealing his secret.
Cupping the nape of her neck, he said, “It’s fine, Brooklyn. You didn’t—”
She shook her head, a small frown creasing her forehead. “No,” she interrupted. “Don’t tell me I didn’t hurt you. I’ve known you too long and too well. You were hurt. I hurt you.”
She didn’t know himthatwell. If Brooklyn did, she wouldn’t be standing here, arms around him. No, she would be lecturing him on why they wouldn’t work. All while slowly backing away from him as if he’d sprouted horns and cloven feet.
“Stop.”
He squeezed the back of her neck. Her lips snapped shut, trapping whatever point she’d probably been about to make next. She slightly stiffened against him—the action so small that if he hadn’t been fine tuned into her exact frequency, he would’ve missed it. Her eyes dipped to his mouth, and just as his gut clenched hard, she lifted her gaze to his.
Was it his imagination or... No. Couldn’t be.
Even as his mind told him he was reading too much into her reaction, he once more flexed his fingers around her neck.
Fuck. Him.
Desire. Surprise and desire glinted in her dark gaze. Her lashes lowered, almost immediately concealing her eyes, but no, he hadn’t imagined it. Hehadn’t. Lust whipped through him like the winds of a destructive storm, threatening to tear him to shreds.
“Brooklyn...”
“It’s a good thing we’re not staying married,” she said, stepping back and stuffing her hands into the pockets of her red bubble coat. “I’d have to smother you in your sleep if you tried to order me around.”
He smirked, concealing the confusion and arousal eddying inside him.
“Believe me, Brookie, if I were giving you orders, you’d know it.” He shifted forward, reclaiming the space she’d placed between them. Bending his head over hers, he murmured, “And like it.”
Her soft gasp whispered over his lips, and it was the closest thing to a kiss. It set him on fire.
He was pushing it—pushing her. And he couldn’t even say why. Maybe if he hadn’t glimpsed that desire in her eyes, he wouldn’t have allowed those words to slip out of his mouth. But he couldn’t unsee it. Didn’t want to.
“Have you met me?” She snorted, arching an eyebrow. “That’s extremely doubtful.”
But her shadowed eyes and the slight tremble of her lips didn’t match up with her sardonic tone.
Back up. Give her room. Let her breathe.
